


Licking is Nine Tenths of the Law

by spacewolfcub



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (blink and you'll miss it levels of implied), Accidental Exhibitionism, Age Difference, Angst, Derek Hale's Sentient Eyebrows, Erica Reyes Is A Good Friend, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Possessive Licking, Pre-Slash, Scent Marking, Short One Shot, Slow Burn, Steter Week, Steter Week 2019, solo masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-29 04:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20076298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacewolfcub/pseuds/spacewolfcub
Summary: Everyone knows: I licked it, so it is mine.Written for Steter Week 2019, prompt: Possessive Licking, Scent MarkingPlease do read the tags.





	Licking is Nine Tenths of the Law

**Author's Note:**

> AGE DIFFERENCE.  
Stiles is over 18 by the time anything happens with Peter. He is 17.5 years old at the start of the pre-slash, as best I could calculate from canon. After Derek gets the loft but before season 3 starts. 
> 
> BETA.  
Deepest appreciation to [Peter Hale (RyloKen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyloKen/pseuds/Peter%20Hale) for sincere encouragement and conscientious concrit. Remaining grammatical errors are likely the author claiming artistic license, despite beta's strenuous objections.

She was only 8 years old, but she knew weird when she saw it. 

That boy was weird. 

His name was weird. The teacher had been calling attendance on the first day of classes and got stuck on his name, mouthed a word repeatedly, shook her head in frustration and just called out his surname — grown-ups just called him 'Stilinski', since. 

His nickname was weird. He went around at lunchtimes during the first week of classes, telling everyone to call him Mischief. That wasn't a name _or_ a nickname. And who wanted a name that would make the adults always blame him for things? The kids just called him 'Missy' now. 

His moods were weird. If he was sitting alone (honestly, that was most of the time) he looked all droopy and sad. If people were standing or sitting close to him (like, the entire time that they were in class) he would jiggle and fiddle and constantly look around. The teacher got very cross about it. Jackson was assigned a seat behind and to the side of the weird boy, and liked to make sudden movements just to watch Missy startle and nearly fall out of his seat; the teacher got cross at him too. 

His clothes were weird. Sometimes he had these huge t-shirts with writing and pictures on them — he said they were music bands, but none of the kids had ever heard of them. The teacher recognized them, for sure. Rumour had it that his dad had been called in to explain about them. Jokes about 'yo mama's so fat she can't reach in the washing machine' trailed him for months until, on a day the weird boy was out sick, the teacher told them all that Missy's mom had been in the hospital since the summer and 'yo mama' jokes were absolutely not okay to ever use against Stilinski when his mother might _actually die_. 

Everyone started just calling him 'Stiles'. Jackson started it, actually. 

His eating was weird. She always sat alone, so she had plenty of time to people-watch. She'd noticed he took things out of his lunchbox and brought them to his lips for a second before putting them down. Every time. It made her curious so she watched closer... The tip of his tongue came out quickly each time; he was licking things. 

That was weird enough, but she started noticing he did it when he took pencils out of his pencil case, his notebooks; but not the classroom textbooks. If he was asked to lend out an eraser or something, he had a different pocket in his pencil case that he got things out of — he didn't lick those things. 

_Weird_. 

His reaction when he saw one of her seizures for the first time was weird. He dropped to his knees beside her as soon as she fell and went rigid; maybe he knew what her wearing a helmet all the time meant. He turned her on her side, toward his knees, and curled up over her head. When she woke up, the floor around them was littered with pencils and he had a few streaks on the back of his neck from markers that had fallen while uncapped. She felt fine other than the general soreness of any seizure. He held her at the nurse's office while she cried and waited for her mom to pick her up. 

Erica was only 8 years old, but she knew weird when she saw it. 

She saw it in the mirror every day. 

When he hugged her good-bye, he nuzzled her cheek. He licked her, on the side of her face the adults couldn't see. 

That's how Erica knew they were best friends. 

* * *

There was an after-school program for the children of working parents. The hospital and the police department got discounts, as well as other public-service careers with long work hours. 

Scott's parents both qualified. 

The program insisted on physical activities even for older children that didn't use the playground anymore. Everyone got sent out for a few hours every afternoon, weather permitting, to the playground or to the large scraggly yard to participate in whichever sport the yard monitor decided on. 

Scott did his best to join in, to get along. He wanted to be normal, just another kid — he'd seen what happened to outsiders. 

Like that Stiles kid who had started showing up more and more since third grade. He went to a different elementary school for classes, and Scott hadn't seen him before. 

Stiles was too distracted; never missed a thing, but was too busy watching everything to notice the ball coming at his face. Healthy enough to run like Scott could not, but flailed too much to be a good player. Teams stopped picking him, would only let him play if the yard monitor noticed and forced them to take him. That opinion bled into the classroom teams as well, and by fifth grade nobody in the program wanted to be seen with him. 

Bad at sports. A cardinal sin for a teen boy. And they'd be teens in a couple of years. 

Scott kept trying, but he had to stop to use his inhaler more and more often. At school his teachers knew, added in more breaks, made him sit out part of the lessons. He could pass for normal when it looked like the teachers' choice; when he was rested enough to do better on the field or court. Here, everyone was noticing. 

His mother kept hoping he'd grow out of it. His father taunted him. Scott had to prove to his father that he was not a loser, a pansy. He had to prove to his mother she could count on him to be strong, brave. He tried harder, ran harder, smiled harder through the tightness in his chest and the rawness in his throat as he wheezed his way through every game despite the meds. 

Bad at sports. A cardinal sin for a teen boy. And he'd be a teen in just a few years. 

The staff grew concerned the first time he pushed himself too hard and had to be taken to hospital. They wouldn't risk getting sued, their insurance would go up if they kept having to pay medical bills, it was traumatizing the other children to see a child taken away in an ambulance... Scott overheard all the excuses they gave his mother when she came in to complain that her child was being discriminated against, excluded from activities. 

He wasn't growing out of it. His mother cried at the hospital, cried all the way home, cried at school the next week. His father laughed. 

He wasn't strong enough. A cardinal sin for a boy. 

The after-school program started letting Stiles sit out group activities with Scott. They were encouraged to walk around, run in short bouts, play gently. Her child would not be isolated — they promised his mother. 

Scott had seen what happened to outsiders. 

He was seeing it now, from the other side. It made him angry to see it, angry like his father — Scott didn't want to be like him. He stopped looking at the children having what he couldn't, started looking at Stiles instead. 

Stiles was excited to have someone to hang out with. Someone all to himself. He was weird but entertaining; it was better to laugh with him than cry about everything else. 

The other children didn't want to work with Scott anymore, so even in the classroom during indoor activities and homework time he was left to Stiles' enthusiasm. Snack and dinner time left him with the choice to sit alone or with Stiles, so he sat with the weird boy. 

Of all the weird things he did, it was the licking that made Scott think he'd been raised by wolves. Stiles licked things — his hoodie when he took it off and hung it on the coat hooks, the strap of his backpack when he packed his things before leaving the classroom and left the bag behind, and his dad's cheek or even shoulder when the man picked him up. Just tiny flicks of the tongue. 

It didn't make sense until Scott was distracted one day, doing homework, and reached for just a random eraser lying nearby. 

Stiles' hand shot out, fingers caged stiffly over the eraser, startling Scott. 

"Oh, sorry. What...?" Scott frowned in confusion. 

Stiles had picked up the eraser and was deliberately licking it, with most of his tongue. That was far more obvious than he usually was about licking things. He set the _actually wet_ eraser back down and calmly informed Scott, "It's mine." 

Scott stared for a moment, then recalled his eyebrows from their hairline vacation. "I see that." 

"You can borrow this one, if you want." Stiles took out a different eraser from another pocket in his pencil case. 

Scott accepted it on autopilot, if a bit gingerly. "Thanks." 

Thinking back, Scott realized that Stiles only ever licked his own things, and even some of his own things never got licked if Stiles planned to share them. Scott had to admit it was effective. 

_He_ certainly didn't want to go around touching Stiles' things at all. 

* * *

It had been a hell of a year, but Stiles was happy that from all this chaos his two best friends were at least safe from dying just because of how they were born. Now they only had to worry about Hunters, insane alphas, rogue supernatural monsters... 

So there was that. 

They were training for that, now. For staying alive and not killing more people than necessary. Stiles was there for moral support, basically. 

They didn't need him for first aid, since they didn't do more than stand to the side and wait to heal a little as 'first aid'. It raised their pain tolerance and got them used to how healing felt now, how much time it took; all important things during a serious fight. 

Sometimes they used him for training in controlling how to fight humans without seriously injuring them — in case they ever had to fight security guards or police. It was good for them to learn the limits of human speed and resilience, learn how to pretend to be just human if necessary; it was good for Stiles because he got the workout of his life. But he needed downtime, he healed slower. 

Today, he was guarding the food coolers from woodland creatures and ants. It was actually hard work, because even this deep in the Preserve the wildlife was used to being fed by hikers and day-campers so they recognized the coolers for exactly what they were and most understood how lids worked. 

Waiting until a meal break was boring, though. He could only snack on the goodies from the coolers for so long before he just felt bloated, and he was still bored. Werewolves had a lot of stamina and they could go for hours before even asking for water. 

There were worse ways to spend the weekend than watching gorgeous people strain and sweat shirtless. Stiles leaned back on his elbows, sprawled across three coolers, and tilted his head to better appreciate the rippling shoulders of a certain adult werewolf — those would make the wasted day worth it on their own. 

He was so distracted he didn't notice the racoon until it had successfully started to lift the lid of the cooler farthest from Stiles. It only had ice and sports drinks in it, but it was the _principle_ of the thing! 

Stiles scrambled upright, standing astride some coolers to get there faster. He flapped his hands at the racoon before slamming his palm on the lid to close it — he didn't want to close the lid on its fingers and _maim_ it. Sheesh. 

It fled and disappeared down a trail. Supposedly. 

There were five new werewolves to train up. Even if they chose not to stay with the Hales, Derek felt it was his responsibility to make sure they had enough self-control to live human lives if they wanted. Or fight the supernatural if it wouldn't let them live human lives. Both skills would be useful if they stayed, anyway; the Hales lived among humans, and kept their territory safe from the supernatural. 

Stiles laid back down, bodily blocking access to the coolers with the meaty food. 

Peter was proving an invaluable resource (as well as incredible eye-candy). He was the only one that had practical experience managing and training the newly turned. 

He seemed to take pleasure in wearing as little as possible while fighting; a point of pride, perhaps, to show himself fully able. He was not as strong as someone with an alpha spark, nor as bulky as the younger Hale, but he absolutely had curves in all the right places and knew how to use them. 

Stiles would know, he was entranced by his silky looking sweatpants hugging each one of those curves as the fighting went on. If anything, his vicious fighting style only added to the sexiness — Stiles hoped he was far enough away they couldn't smell his low-key arousal. Hoping to distract himself a bit, he sat up and reached into a cooler for something to chew on. A bag of pepperoni was open, so he grabbed a stick. 

A chipmunk scrambled quietly down the side of a nearby tree; the stripes caught Stiles' eye. Not wanting to bother with getting up, Stiles bared teeth and growled at it. 

Message received: it shot back up the tree. 

It was at Peter's behest that Allison had been excluded from this. As a Hunter, she could not be allowed to see them fight — study their weaknesses and their strengths. Scott had argued bitterly about cult behaviour or something, for weeks. Stiles' jokes about the rules of _Fight Club_ had fallen on deaf ears. Okay, no, Erica laughed politely the first time. 

The argument hadn't ended until Scott revealed to Allison that she was being excluded. Her answer? She had not noticed. She was busy doing Hunter training with her father now — the wolves were of course not invited to participate or watch them train, either. That was just common sense. 

Those were dark times. Stiles had spent a lot of quality time with Erica, while Scott sat around brooding. 

Stiles was so busy examining these memories, that he didn't notice the racoon until it was already half inside the fruit cooler. Stiles shot up and freed up his hands by slapping the pepperoni down on a cooler's lid, chased down the racoon until it dropped what it had stolen, and stalked back to the clearing victorious. 

They could just cut away the bitten part of the mango. 

Outrage! It had been a diversion! While he was chasing one 'coon down, another one had taken up Stiles' seat _and_ Stiles' food! 

He threw the fruit and ran right for the filthy little pepperoni-thief, a roar (shriek, Erica would later correct) in his throat. The 'coon was sufficiently startled to drop the pepperoni before launching off at a dead run to save its life. 

Stiles snatched up the stick and caught his breath, crouching over the coolers and glaring daggers after the 'coon. With one last growly huff he stood up and brought the pepperoni to his mouth, gave it a great big defiant lick, and resumed his seat. 

Running suspicious eyes over his domain, checking for intruders, revealed something else going on at the other end of the clearing. Rather, something not going on — training. The 'wolves had stopped practicing and were just staring over at Stiles. 

He clutched the pepperoni to his chest protectively. 

Erica and Scott lifted their hands palm-out in surrender, took a step back. Boyd and Isaac nervously turned away. Derek and Peter stared for a bit, then went back to doing their thing. 

Well. At least Lydia hadn't been here to see that. 

* * *

The alpha looked around at the people in his den and doubted his own methods. Yes, it had been kind to heal the ones at risk of dying; true even of his uncle's accidental beta. Yes, it had been kind to try to save the other two from bullying and suicide. But they were not coming together as _a wolfpack_. 

These teenagers might now have werewolf bodies, but they were mired in human concerns. 

Isaac showed up to pack events as some form of self-defense training, always vigilant against petty human violence instead of the _real_ threats. Even living with Derek had not managed to instill any sense of perspective in the boy; _pack_ is the strength of the wolf. But in Isaac's mind, he always stood alone against the world. 

Scott kept training only for the goal of making himself non-threatening enough, tame enough, to live a 'normal' life. How he thought that being romantically involved with _a Hunter_ would ever lead to the mundane suburban dream, Derek could not fathom. 

Boyd was mature enough to really value more than the physical aspects of being a were. Unfortunately, he already had the human adult mindset of being an individual in charge of his own separate life. He saw the Hale pack as allies rather than family and only offered gratitude, not true 'wolf loyalty. Like Isaac, he was a satellite rather than core; anything could knock him loose. 

Erica was the most promising — more accurately, the least disappointing. She _was_ grateful for her new lease on life, but not grateful to Derek specifically. She wanted to be part of the group, but any group at all would do. She sought to curry favour but in a sexist human way, as if her only value lay in her sex appeal. She was willing to embrace her werewolf nature, at least, even if she was not bonding as part of Derek's pack. 

Everyone was winding down from an intense afternoon of hitting the books, trying to learn a little bit of everything so they could protect themselves. 

Scott had brought the food delivered upstairs and would have just set it down on the coffee table for everyone if not forLydia more or less ripping the boxes and bags out of his hands and setting them on the big table, right where Derek was. Even her own salad was in the bags; yet she still set it all at the alpha's mercy. By human rules it was all his anyway, he'd paid for it, but what really struck him was how the actual werewolves in the room (save Peter) had seen nothing amiss with Scott's behaviour. 

It was ironic that the two non-wolves of the group were the most wolf-like. 

Lydia was exceedingly aware of hierarchy, but also was an expert at using non-violent cues to establish and maintain her high ranking. She had spent her childhood using peer pressure to secure her rank and safety; group dynamics and teamwork were second-nature to her, even if she still saw the pack as a clique rather than family. Considering her family life, maybe for her the clique was more meaningful. 

Then there was Stiles. If there ever was a puppy... 

Even among his peers, human-thinking teenagers, he was pushed aside or merely tolerated. A lifetime of being kept on the outside could have left him as skittish as Isaac, forced him to grow up faster like Boyd... Instead, he seemed perpetually caught in a loop of expecting to be left behind but rushing to keep up with the group. Classic lowest-ranking pack member. 

He mediated, trying to keep everyone together. He treated each person as important, maybe understanding how much it hurt to be expendable. He offered his car, his home, his time... He bargained with everything he had to be allowed to stay. Humans might call that kind of loyalty an emotional disorder; for 'wolves, it was how loners tried to court the pack they wanted to join. 

Derek took his portion on a napkin and stepped back to signal he was done for now. Peter elbowed his way in and stared down Erica for being uppity and trying to dart in to get a slice before her turn. Lydia did manage to get food second, but only because she was grabbing the clamshell of salad that nobody else wanted. Both Lydia and Peter retreated to their own perches on the couch. 

Most of the rest huddled around the pizzas, reaching in for another slice as needed. Stiles hung back, tidying up their books and notes until everyone else had grabbed some food and only then coming in with a couple of napkins and grabbing both pizza slices and brownie squares. He licked each one before putting them on his stacks and settling down on the floor between Peter and Lydia's feet. 

The huddle around the pizzas cleaned out the boxes and descended upon the brownies left without even a glance at Derek. It irked, but Derek wasn't in the mood for sugar or for fighting. 

Boyd was a conscientious enough guest to help with cleanup, gathering the empty boxes into a garbage bag. There was a lot of respect there, but not the sense of taking care of a family home... No, Boyd would likely remain a loner; an ally at best. 

Derek washed his hands and sat back at his spot, stalling on further studying. He liked reading but this careful sifting through obfuscated entries and cross-referencing any scrap of a clue for veracity was _not_ his idea of fun. He studied his pack— his 'guests', instead. 

The young ones sat back down on chairs around the coffee table, talking about unimportant human things like sports and movies. Lydia had already picked up her research again, feet tucked up on the seat beside her. Stiles was reviewing his notes and doodling on the corners. 

Peter did not have a sweet tooth but did love provoking people, pushing buttons. He leaned forward where he sat on the sofa, just enough to reach across Stiles. His hand passed not an inch in front of Stiles' face and snagged one square of the small pile of brownies Stiles had set aside — it was a clear challenge to Stiles' territorial nature. 

Scott looked on gleefully, Erica tried to wave Peter off with wild gesturing, Lydia nudged Peter's leg with a toe and frowned at him in reproof. Isaac and Boyd seemed confused by everyone's antics. Derek looked on with interest, knowing full well that once Stiles licked something he did not let it go gracefully. 

Stiles seemed to be in one of his hyper-focused trances, though, mouth slightly parted as he frowned in concentration at whatever he was writing. Peter's hand, carrying a pilfered brownie square, retreated slowly — giving Stiles' nose a chance to warn him about the trespass. 

Nobody was ready for Stiles' tongue to dart out, giving a long and unequivocal lick to Peter's hand from wrist to knuckle. He didn't seem to notice what he'd done. 

Peter startled, sat up straight, and brought his hand back to his chest still clutching the brownie. Erica froze mid-flail, Scott glowered, Lydia looked thoughtfully at Stiles. Boyd and Isaac continued to look confused. Derek laughed out loud, which made every head turn to stare at him with shocked eyes. 

* * *

"So..." Derek walked up behind Peter, once again ensconced in the loft's sofa, reading some obscure literary or occult tome. 

Peter closed his book with a silent, long-suffering sigh. "Yes, nephew?" 

Derek leaned over the back of the couch and pointed an accusatory finger at Peter's left hand. "There's a new claim on you." 

Peter lifted the hand in question and wiggled his fingers demonstratively. "No ring." He waved the hand at the side of his neck. "No mating bite." 

Settling his elbows on the back of the couch, Derek pretended to look thoughtfully around the room. "What are you going to do about it?" He asked, like butter wouldn't melt. 

An interesting question. 

Peter had discussed the pack's potential with Derek before. If possible, he despaired even more than his nephew. The two that understood _pack_ could not be bound to the pack as they were, not without a trustworthy Emissary. The ones that could bridge the distance due to their inherent 'wolf magic were too human to accept the bonds. 

But pack was not 'wolves only; their mates and offspring were bound without outside interference. 

"He is rather young," Peter pointed out unnecessarily. 

Derek's eyebrows smirked at him even as his nephew stared him down impassively. 

"His father is in law enforcement, and he's an only child," Peter admitted more truthfully. An overprotective parent in a position to cause trouble was a valid concern. 

"Hm..." Derek's eyes and his brows took another tour of the loft. 

Peter knew interrogation techniques when he saw them but, as always, silence was far more Derek's domain than his. And the unspoken accusation of cowardice _irked_. 

"He's bright, eager to please... Delicious. I admit I rather want to take him up on his offer. Shouldn't you be the voice of reason, telling me to stay away for the sake of the pack? Trying to gain the sheriff's good graces?" 

"Pack is awfully small..." Derek commented nonchalantly. 

"Why, Derek..." A genuine grin stole over Peter's face. "How mercenary of you." 

Looking vaguely offended, Derek argued, "He is in the middle of trouble no matter what I do. If he lent his strength to the pack we could keep him that much safer." 

"A valid argument. It's the manner of his inclusion that could backfire." 

"He'll be 18 in less than a year." 

"Ah," Peter signaled his apparent understanding succinctly, nodding wisely and pretending to return to his reading. 

" 'Ah' what?" Came the disgruntled rejoinder. 

Derek was just too easy. If silence was his thing, secrets and hints were Peter's. 

"Mm?" Peter ran his eyes down the page, seemingly finished with the conversation. 

"Uncle..." The boy growled. 

Satisfied the disruption to his reading had been paid for in amusement value, Peter closed his book again and turned to the irate alpha. "A little groundwork, then. A slow courtship. I might find time for it in my busy schedule." 

Derek seemed suspicious. Whether at the quick capitulation or the methods of the courtship in question, was anybody's guess. 

Excellent. The boy was learning. 

"Just like that... What are you planning?" The query was accompanied by some serious eyebrow skepticism. 

Suspicious of everything, then. He really might yet grow into a proper alpha. At least live long enough to get to try. And wasn't _that_ a sobering thought. 

Peter finally answered in all seriousness, "I have to be obvious enough to keep his attention. Show I am interested in what he's offering... But vague enough to not draw his father's notice. Keep him high on possibility and hope but not tip him over into impatience." 

The brows gathered to examine these statements between themselves. 

"So how do you do that...?" He finally asked. 

Peter really could never resist showing off. "Start subtle — he's bright enough he might notice. Then be a bit more overt, but keep it plausibly deniable. Build a rapport." 

Derek nodded, satisfied, and went about his day. Even left the building. 

Peter wondered how long it'd take for Derek to realize that Peter had actually told him nothing. His nephew might yet grow into a proper alpha; but today was not that day. Peter would just have to stick around to save him from himself in the meantime. 

Ahh, but it was good to know he could still obfuscate with the best of them. 

* * *

He was going to need a welcome mat by his window at this rate. It was like the 'wolves in his life couldn't operate doors and had decided Stiles' window was the Stilinski household's doggy door. 

Stiles slammed the dryer shut on another load and haphazardly folded his freshly dried clothes. 

Derek still came over periodically to pace and brood. Stiles had been forced to clear his floor so his dirty laundry did not get kicked at terminal velocity in every direction. Collectible figurines were _breakable_. 

He stomped up the stairs with his unscented and unsoftened clothes. Not that the softener did any good except for towels, but it was yet another thing he'd given up for the comfort of 'wolves in his life. 

Lydia couldn't lose social cred by being seen at his place, so she also chose the path theoretically less travelled. Her nose-wrinkling at everything had shamed him into changing his admittedly rank bedsheets, washing his snowdrifts of laundry, and actually vacuuming. 

If a man could not shirk household duties in his own bedroom, where was the last bastion of bachelorhood? Was nothing sacred anymore? 

Now Peter, who'd never met a text he didn't ghost, had completely lost the ability to use his shiny new smartphone. Apparently. He'd been showing up to drop off messages, answer texts in person, ask things out of idle curiosity... 

Stiles would have interrogated him about that but had been too busy trying to keep his thoughts pure during the visits so the scent of his arousal wouldn't give away what the werewolf's presence in Stiles' space was doing to him. 

He slammed his clothes into whichever drawer had space, and little by little the pile diminished. 

Because Peter didn't just come to talk. He shed his jacket, walked around pensively touching things. He reviewed Stiles wardrobe piece by piece; judging in loud silences. He sat on the bed, lost shoes and socks... Sprawled. Squirmed his way up Stiles' unmade bed like a dog taking a bed bath— 

Oh. 

Stiles stopped where he stood, armful of folded clothes about to be deposited in his drawers (no doubt to be later rearranged to Peter's standards) and stared at his bed. 

Where Peter made a habit of squirming every time the sheets were changed; ostensibly to find a good spot to settle down and read. 

Stiles' head pivoted slowly to look down at his drawers, where every single piece had been refolded and handled by Peter. 

The closet called his attention next... Peter had already seen everything there, so why did he keep rechecking everything? No, not everything. Just his favourites and the newly clean stuff. 

Hugging his forgotten clothes to his chest, Stiles looked about the room trying to find even one book, figurine, or doodad that Peter had not handled in the past months. This last time he'd even left his jacket draped over the corner of the bookcase by the window. 

Stiles was being _scent marked_. It was an invasion of the dilf-wolf cooties! 

Stiles abandoned his clothes atop an open drawer and walked in a daze to his bed. It now seemed to glow with the lure of pheromones he could not smell but wanted to etch right inside his skin. With little thought and less common sense, he stripped completely naked right there in grand central wolf-station. 

Peter had come by just hours ago; whatever his scent mark was, it had to be fresh. Stiles threw himself face down on the rumpled sheets, humping and moaning, licking and biting at the Peterness on his pillow. Burying his face entirely into the firm hypoallergenic cuboid proved his undoing... Peter had sweated into it enough that even Stiles' sadly human sense of smell could recognize the scent of the man. 

With a final groan, he spilled onto his ex-clean sheets. 

He lay there panting a few seconds, then absolutely had to come up for air. Turning over was awkward. He withdrew the fingers he'd hastily shoved, unlubed, an inch up his ass and cleaned them off on his 'private time' towel, always hiding under his pillow. 

Stiles froze, considering. The towel was private enough from Lydia's human nose, and Derek had never even cared about the dirty laundry that had been marinating for weeks... But had Peter been lounging here, right on this pillow, for months and not noticed? Or had he decided to drop by specifically to scent eau du horny Stiles? 

With a whimper, Stiles flopped onto his back and half heartedly wiped the towel over the mess he'd made. He'd better grab the lube before the next wave of uncontrollable thirst hit. At this rate he'd never be able to actually _sleep_ here again. 

That's when he noticed — Peter's jacket, by the window, was gone. 

* * *

Erica held on a little too long with her hug, but she was collecting evidence so everyone would just have to put up with it. When she let go, Stiles looked sadly at her and petted her shoulder a few extra times. Well, fair enough, she was also feeling a little neglected. 

The 'wolves and affiliated humans had weathered the invading rabid alphas all right, but all the excitement had meant no social time with her best bud. And he was the reason she had stayed at all. 

He was the one she cared about that she could not protect with her absence; he would never let Scott fight with only the Hales as backup. Silly boy was kind of attached to his sourwolf and his creeperwolf, too. 

Erica had expected the mess to leave her family alone if she wasn't there to attract trouble, so she'd been playing the rebellious teen card a lot. It made it more credible when she stormed out to spend night after night at 'a friends' place; Derek's crappy old loft now smelled a lot like her and Boyd, who had been using the same tactic. 

It was also why she was now very familiar with the Hales' scents; and Stiles low-key reeked of them. One Hale in particular. 

In all the fighting and planning sessions it had not seemed strange — Stiles was often left with Lydia and Peter, researching and prepping. Now... There was no real reason why Stiles should smell like the oldest Hale. 

Over the next few weeks of calm she watched, she hugged and sniffed. Stiles seemed happy and relaxed. There wasn't a specific part of him that smelled more like Peter than another. Peter didn't seem to be touching Stiles at all... 

At least Stiles wasn't being hurt as far as she could tell. But where was the scent coming from? 

Erica decided that more nosiness was in order. She came in through the front door, but the house seemed normal. Stiles tried to engage her with food or a movie, but she expertly steamrolled over all that and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. 

Stiles seemed nervous but that just amused her... Until she opened his door and was hit with a wall of unexpected scents. 

"Stiles, what the hell?" She turned to the boy in question, incredulous. 

"What now? That is a clean and tidy room! What more do you want from me?" He seemed genuinely frustrated. 

Erica walked in and did a circuit of the room, nose quietly working overtime. Stiles followed, arms crossed belligerently but feet dancing a nervous shuffle. 

"What?!" He finally lost every appearance of cool. 

Erica sniffed once, loudly. Exhaled in a huff. "Is this the secret new den and nobody bothered to tell me?" 

Alarmed, but mostly guilty, Stiles flailed his arms as if to bat the words out of the air. "What? No! No no no—" 

"Even _Cora_ has been here!" 

"That was _one_ time— Wait, you can smell that?" His eyes flicked to the bed then immediately to the opposite wall and stayed there. 

Blood in them waters. Erica flung herself face down on the bed, sniffing for all she was worth. A boyish squawk accompanied her swan dive, and was rapidly joined by her own as she flailed free of the overwhelming miasma. 

She crumpled to the ground, trying to process. It was some kind of instinctual aversion to invading another wolf's den. 

Erica had been expecting the reek of a healthy teen boy at his sexual peak. She'd been expecting maybe traces of a night of passion (read: awkward making out) with Cora. 

Stiles knelt by her now, his worried frown showing she looked as broken as she felt. Because even though she'd smelled all three Hales in the room, and perhaps traces of the scented crap Lydia doused herself in though it made the werewolves sneeze, she had not expected the bed to be so thoroughly claimed by both Stiles and "Peter?" 

* * *

It was something of an open secret now. The Hales obviously knew. Erica knew for sure. Lydia had a knowing glint in her eye — who knew what she really knew or just thought she knew. 

Isaac never came close to Stiles except as fight practice demanded. Boyd kept a polite distance, his touches both casual and minimal, and gave every appearance of keeping his superwolf nose to himself. 

Even Stiles' dad had side-eyed the sudden domesticity of regular laundry days and a clear floor, but he could hardly complain now after years of nagging Stiles to clean his mess. After the first few months he'd acclimated to it as the new normal. 

The real mystery was Scott. He had gotten back together with Allison, so it was only to be expected that at first he didn't notice anything. Back then even Stiles had not known. Nobody talked about anything except their private war when the invading alphas were in town. Then everyone had been recovering, but Scott had been reconnecting with his mother and his girl; nobody else. 

That was fine. Stiles had many new people in his life to get to know outside of death defying stunts, his dad had been home more often once collateral chaos had died down, and Erica still made time for Stiles in between bouts of climbing Boyd like the massive tree he was. 

Then Allison had broken up with Scott again and Scott was consumed by his angst; apparently that was just how he dealt with heartbreak each and every time. Stiles had never known that because they'd never dealt with dating woes before Allison. 

But it was still a mystery how everyone except one of his oldest friends, with supernose to boot, had not noticed. 

To be honest, Stiles was growing impatient about it. He'd been relieved at first to not have dramatics thrown into his whatever it was with Peter; it'd been hard enough to talk Erica through something he didn't understand himself, but at least Erica didn't have bad blood with Peter. Erica LIKED not being human and sickly anymore. Now waiting for the other friend-shoe to fall was getting on Stiles' nerves. 

Which was the only excuse he had for not noticing this sooner. 

"I'm so glad you've been taking care of groceries, don't get me wrong, but I am the parent and the least I could do is foot the bill, son." His dad seemed a mix of proud and regretful. 

Stiles was grateful this had been said right as he'd stuffed his face full of healthy food... So his expression of shock merely made his dad thwap Stiles on the back in a misguided attempt to help him not choke on the giant mouthful he was working through. 

It also gave him time to come up with a lie. 

He didn't want to worry his dad, but Stiles had not been buying groceries. In fact, he'd been congratulating himself on finally having trained his dad to buy only healthy, fresh food. Not a trace of junk had been brought into the house in weeks — except for the crumpled empty packages in his dad's pockets. Not a criminal mastermind, his detective dad had not thought to hide evidence from the person who did most of the laundry. Sloppy. 

But somehow food had been appearing in their home and they had both just accepted it... So Stiles was not in a position to cast aspersions on anyone else's perspicacity. 

Stiles chewed slower and stalled, trying to play it off as awkwardness over the money. 

How had people been getting into—? The damned wolfy door. They needed to invest in locks for the upstairs windows. Stiles swallowed. 

"I've been catching rides with the Hales. They're part of a bulk groceries club. They have to pay with their member card so I didn't pay at the till and then they kept saying they were trying to make up for all the trouble, so... I figured I'd wait until that well ran dry?" Stiles winced sheepishly. 

Because he did want his dad to give credit where it was due, and clearly it was the Hales currying favour. The goodwill would come in handy if this unspoken thing with Peter went anywhere... Well, where would it go? What was even happening? 

As expected, that little truculent bit at the end sold the lie. 

"Stiles... That just ain't right, son. I know you like being frugal but taking advantage of that family's guilt..." Noah shook his head in reproof and Stiles felt bad for things he didn't even do. "They didn't ask to be victims of hate crime or to be driven insane or be attacked by a gang of serial killers." 

Well, it was good to know his dad saw the Hales more as victims than criminals. He would forgive Stiles for his imagined flaws but he'd be a lot less lenient with breaking and entering by outsiders. This way, at least, the food was accepted in the spirit in which it was given. Right? 

How _was_ the food meant, actually? 

His dad said he'd settle accounts with the Hales himself. Stiles pretended to do the dishes with one hand that night, while with the other feverishly texting Derek what to say to keep the story straight. 

* * *

Derek had demurred back payment, but agreed to keep receipts in future. 

It was the need for those receipts that led to Stiles' current predicament. He was riding shotgun in Peter's sedan while they went over to a town two hours away to the nearest bulk groceries club. Which the Hales actually loathed, so first they'd spend all day scouring late spring farmers' markets for food the 'wolves would actually eat. 

Peter was surprisingly not upset about this imposition. Apparently bringing food to the den was an honour, judging by his insufferably smug mug. 

After hours spent watching as Peter sniffed each and every fruit, vegetable, and meat, Stiles broke. 

"This is all your fault, you know?" 

"Oh? How so?" Peter answered, with every appearance of concentrating on picking _just_ the right fennel bulb. 

"You— You broke into my house!" Stiles spluttered and flailed. 

"And left presents inside. If it's okay for Santa, I don't see—" 

"Santa's _not real!_" 

"Neither are werewolves," Peter grinned at him while dropping fang. 

Stiles choked on his frustration a moment; this wasn't getting him anywhere. "So is this a 'wolfy thing, then?" 

"Hm." Peter shuffled down to the farmer to pay for his picks. 

Stiles hung back and fumed at the nonanswer. As soon as the transaction was done he dove back in, intent on quietly hissing his outrage until he got some damn answers. 

He was preempted by Peter's random question, "When is your birthday?" 

Startled, Stiles blurted out, "Next week. Wait, what does _that_ have to do with the price of tea in—?" 

"Eighteen?" 

Speechless, Stiles stood stock still in the parking lot as Peter walked away. Was he really...? Did it actually...? Was this 'wolfy _courting?_ Stiles rushed to catch up. 

"Big date. We should pick up something special for that." 

Was Peter actually into him? Waiting for something like a year for Stiles to be legal? 

Stiles didn't like not knowing for sure, but if he only had one week left to pretend that's what it all meant... Ignorance was bliss. And bliss felt like being actually wanted. 

The rest of the trip passed in a daze. 

* * *

His birthday fell on a weekday, so they planned the party for the weekend after. Stiles spent his birthday at school, then doing homework, having a quiet dinner out with his dad, and fielding congratulatory texts from family and his hugely expanded circle of friends. 

That night he sat alone in his bedroom, window cracked invitingly open, and tried to not feel like an idiot. He'd showered and shaved after dinner. He'd set out a new bottle of lube. He'd made his bed with clean sheets. 

The bed still smelled of Peter when he cried himself to sleep hours later. He wanted his bliss back. 

* * *

"Stiiiiles! We're gonna be late!" Erica whined. 

Stiles stood desultorily staring at the keys on his desk. "Happy birthday to me..." he mumbled. 

Erica shoved her face into his line of vision and frowned at him. "Yeah... That's the idea. What's gotten into you?" 

"_Nothing_," he bit off viciously. He snatched up his keys and stomped out to his car. 

Erica closed the house behind them and climbed into Roscoe with a wary look on her face, but kept quiet. Sometimes she was a good enough friend to know when to let him stew until he was good and ready. 

He didn't feel like celebrating but he'd be damned if he let Peter's games screw him out of an actual party with actual people that liked him in attendance. It wasn't as if Peter had ever promised anything. Really, Stiles had set himself up for this disappointment. 

The drive to the loft wasn't long enough to talk himself out of the physical ache lodged behind his breastbone. He meant to put on a happy face and enjoy his party; living well was the best revenge and all. 

His best intentions went out the window when he arrived at the underground parking to see Peter's car missing. Yanking the parking brake on, he dissolved into tears. 

Erica reached over to rub his back with one hand, turn the ignition off with the other, and made shushing noises the whole while. 

Stiles hugged the steering wheel and felt like it was the only thing holding him together. "I _like_ him, okay?? I thought he liked me, too! I knew it was a 'wolf thing but—" 

Erica continued petting him even as he was sobbing too hard to keep talking. "Hey, my sweet idiot, is this about the Big Bad denning with you?" 

"What does that _even mean??_" He raged at her, getting a couple of new bruises on his arms from flailing in an enclosed space. He cradled his injuries to his chest and watched the tears fall on plaid sleeves. 

"You're the expert, doofus. I only have the new instincts, but having the decoder ring doesn't mean I know how to use it." 

"You asked if it was a new pack den; in my room. Then you said the bed was as much Peter's as mine. But nothing happened so I just... Let it be. Then this year he started sneaking food into my house, like how cats bring you dead birds, right?" 

Erica's nose wrinkled. "He brought you kills?" 

"No..." Wiping the snot running down his face on a sleeve, he tried to make her see why he'd thought— "Yes. But kills from the grocery store! Like, it was regular food but it was like how you bring girls flowers, right? Meaty bouquets of wolf-love." 

"This is brand new information. He was feeding you? Not, like, taking you out for dinner but putting food in your fridge?" 

"Yes!" Vindicated, Stiles flung both arms out, palms up. "Ow." Still an enclosed space. 

Erica held both his wrists in his lap to prevent further injuries. "Stiles... Scent marking your clothes and everything as his own, I can see as a pack thing. It made me nervous before when I didn't hug you enough." 

"Oh, so it's just pack instinct?" He sniffed sadly. 

"Let me finish! Marking your bed, since I never felt like I needed to and the other born 'wolves didn't do it, seems a lot more about just him and you. Right?" 

Stiles blinked wetly and agreed. "Right. So—" 

One of her hands released his wrists to cover his mouth. "But actually stocking up your house with food? That's not just warning others off, that's actively providing for you. Like pack." 

Stiles glared at her. He'd worked out that much on his own; that's how he'd gotten his hopes up in the first place. 

"No, no, listen. Like pack but not in a pack den. Just your den with him. The bed didn't smell like the big den bed in the loft. Derek and Cora didn't go near it; I couldn't even stay on it without my skin crawling." 

Stiles' eyes begged her to say it meant what he wanted. But... He shook her hand off and Erica let him. "But my birthday was _days_ ago! And here I am, as virginal as last week!" Pause. Rewind. Shit, he said that out loud. 

The vicious smirk on her face said she'd heard it. "Well, if he just wanted a piece of unicorn bait would he have spent a year doing this stuff and letting every other 'wolf in your life know?" 

Stiles contemplated that and dug for paper napkins or something to clean his face with. 

"Would he have even needed to?" 

Guilty as charged, Stiles looked up at her with big wounded eyes. "Et tu, Erica?" 

"The point is, Peter's not one to sweat the small stuff. If he spent this long on whatever version of denning he's doing then it's an _investment_." 

"Well, investment matured, okay? It's all downhill from here, I'm not getting any more mature." 

"I'll say." Erica finally sat back and relaxed. 

"Hey, now. You're supposed to be on my side." Stiles wiped what was left of a mangled paper napkin over his face. 

Erica tore it out of his hand and threw it in the backseat. "Now you smell like misery, snot, cheap paper towel, and week-old curly fry oil. Just wash your face when we go up. I'll distract them." 

"See? That's more like it." Stiles smiled approvingly at her. Then his smile dropped. "But seriously, if not when I turn eighteen then when?" 

"In the house where your dad was bound to have taken the night off because it was his only son's eighteenth birthday? Really, Stiles?" 

The lightbulb went off over Stiles' head. "Ohh... You... Make a very good point." 

"Of course I do. Big Bad is shameless, not suicidal. Now— " 

They were cut off as a black sedan loaded down with camping supplies honked at them to stop blocking the drive. 

Stiles parked so fast in his spot that he nearly left paint on a column, then raced Erica to the elevators as Peter sedately parked his overloaded car. Stiles needed to wash his face before the man saw he'd been throwing all his toys out the pram. 

Erica was smiling lopsidedly at him, which is when he remembered scent. She said he smelled like misery! 

He urgently flapped his shirt about. 

She laughed. 

"What?" 

"He's gonna take this elevator after us, you know?" 

Stiles dropped his flannel like it was on fire and flailed helplessly, first trying to sweep the smell back into his shirt then realizing it was pointless and flapping away to dissipate it. 

His oldest friend cackled. 

"Help me!" 

"You're doing fine, spazzy wonder. The sad smell is older now, so you can hardly tell under the pong of panic and musty paper towel." 

Stiles' mouth fell open as he stared at the utter and complete lack of helpfulness in his friend. 

"You sure know how to reel 'em in." She smirked and shook her head, then turned to deal with the scissor gates of the elevator; which Stiles was terrified of after the second time they tried to eat his fingers. 

At least she was helping him avoid physical injury. But that sort of comment, while not untrue, was not increasing his self-confidence. 

"He must love you _a lot_..." She snarked as she ran to the stairs leading up to the terrace, playing decoy to give Stiles time to wash off. 

Stiles smiled as he hustled into the little half bathroom on the main den level. Relentless honesty actually made the hope she offered all the sweeter; he was sure she really meant it. 

* * *

He was sure he was the picture of nonchalance. He lounged, smiled indulgently upon the teens infesting the den, and kept his nearly transparent black linen shirt away from the frequent spills. 

Cora kept breaking down into giggles every time she walked past him. Derek kept rubbing his nose and sighing at Peter. Erica grinned predatorily at him. 

He was cool and collected. He was a chilly winter cucumber. He was... Absorbing Stiles' ridiculous figures of speech. 

Isaac tried to hide from Scott in Peter's shadow, but after one indelicate sniff he fled. Boyd seemed to think it would be a good break from real socializing to lounge with Peter on the terrace railing, but seconds after sitting down he chugged his drink and ran for a refill. 

So he was nervous. So sue him. 

Mate claims were to be made publicly and tonight Peter would either secure the best thing to happen to him in almost a decade, or ruin what respect he'd managed to garner with this ragtag group. If he failed, true pack would grieve with him, but the rest of these hyenas would point and laugh. 

And wasn't it a kick in the teeth that he was most worried about how bad Stiles would feel then? The boy lashed out viciously to defend his people, but he'd hate to be the trigger that made a group of bullies turn on someone left vulnerable. It said a lot that Peter felt Stiles would protect him as pack. Yes, even if Peter's offer was turned down the months of careful, consistent attention at least should make sure the boy knew Peter was in earnest. 

The little coy glances following him from shadow to shadow throughout the evening also reassured Peter that he was not, well, barking up the wrong tree. 

As the party drew to a middle, Derek sent Boyd down to grab the cake and everyone else started clearing out space on the big table they'd lugged upstairs. Werewolf strength had made it lighter, but not easier what with a spiral staircase to navigate. It'd been the 'bar' and buffet for the night, tastefully catered by Lydia and Peter — it was a special night, after all. No alcohol, since it'd be wasted on the 'wolves and Peter wanted to make sure his claim on Stiles, if accepted, was not challenged on the basis of the boy's blood alcohol level. 

Peter finished helping in time to lurk behind Stiles as Boyd set down the enormous chocolate monstrosity. Still gourmet, of course, but 'wolf appetites left little room for delicacy in portion sizes. 

Strident songs were sung, the single candle shaped like an 18 blown out, and Stiles was handed the first slice. Which he accepted while bantering with Erica and absently raised to his face to lick, ignoring the perfectly serviceable fork stuck under a corner of the wedge. 

That was the cue Peter had been waiting for. 

Nerves spiking so bad his eyes glowed, prompting a terribly alarmed look on the face of the one person who seemed to have remained oblivious to the courtship, Peter leaned into Stiles' from behind and slowly licked a broad and long stripe from the base of the boy's nape... Around and up the side of his neck... Coming to linger in a thorough marking nuzzle behind his ear. 

Peter stayed there with eyes closed, his whole world narrowed to the scent of the skin against his mouth. Would he get to keep this? Or was this to be his one and only taste? 

His claws snagged on the flannel over Stiles' hips, his fangs dropped and forced Peter to part his lips which only made it easier to scent the response to his claim. 

It began with a full-body tremor, continued with a flush warming the skin under his lips, and then the hormonal changes within Stiles reached full expression and Peter inhaled point-blank the heady scent of the boy's pheromones advertising _immediate_ readiness to mate. 

They were not wild beasts, however, so Peter held off on the need to give the mating bite as Stiles turned in his arms. 

"Yeah?" His boy smiled radiantly. 

"Yes. Forever, if you'll have me." 

The lick he received from clavicle to chin, and the inexpert but enthusiastic mauling kiss that followed as his boy climbed him with both arms and legs, sufficiently settled the issue. Peter carried his boy off downstairs while some sort of kerfuffle broke out on the terrace behind them. 

They had forever to get started on. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is it! The last fic from me for Steter Week 2019. 
> 
> 💐 Thank you to everyone who inspired my Muse, especially those of you who left kudos and those lovely, lovely comments on the previous fics. Without your encouragement, I would only think the stories but never write or publish them. 💞


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